Out of the Dungeons
by LianneZ4
Summary: Years ago, Lord Peter Burke saved Neal Caffrey's life and brought him into the Queen's service. Now that a turn of events led Peter into the dungeons, Neal isn't going to let a terrible fate befall his friend – even if it means making a deal with the devil and confronting old fears. AU; set in 16 or 17ish century.
1. Prologue

**OUT OF THE DUNGEONS**

 **Summary:** AU. Years ago, Lord Peter Burke saved Neal Caffrey's life and brought him into the Queen's service. Now that a turn of events led Peter into the dungeons, Neal isn't going to let a terrible fate befall his friend – even if it means making a deal with the devil and confronting old fears. It's time to get creative.

Set in a 17th century-ish European-like country (not historically accurate).

 _ **A/N:**_ _Written for_ _tjs_whatnot as a part of fandom-aid for the Typhoon Haiyan Fundraiser.  
_

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

There was an audience coming the next day.

After the trial, he had (mostly) done what they told him: he had stopped _(postponed)_ his plans and waited (almost) patiently until the King said his final word.

 _(He couldn't just sit by the sidelines. He had contacted people; he started gathering resources and information; he made inquiries – but_ quietly. _He was very careful, and very quiet, because an error would be deadly and there was too much at stake here.)_

Frowning, Neal stared at the incomplete map in front of him before sighing in frustration.

He had spent a good part of six years trying in vain to forget the place that still haunted him in his nightmares. Yet now that he _needed_ those memories – now that his torment might finally be good for something – his recollection remained spotty and vague.

 _Maybe the King will show mercy. Maybe another option will come up. Maybe pigs will fly._

Either way, he would find out tomorrow.

He rolled up the map and hid it back in his drawers.

o - o - o

Sitting on the stone ground, Peter toyed with the soup in his hands, poking a piece of vegetable with his spoon, trying to get his hands warm from the still hot bowl.

His stomach croaked in protest. Giving up his reluctance, he drank the warm liquid and then picked at the bigger pieces with the spoon until the whole bowl was empty, leaving him still a bit hungry but no longer starving. He would be okay, he thought; he just needed to remain patient and wait.

The latest bit of news said that his cousin's son had requested an audience with the King. Sooner or later, Peter's luck would turn around… it _had_ to. Everything was going to be all right.

He placed the bowl on the ground and leaned his back against the wall, trying once again to get some rest.

o - o - o

The audience went about the way she had expected.

The pair in front of them tried to make their case to the royal court, but they were only minor gentry with no real power. Even if they _had_ been eloquent speakers, it was painfully obvious that the King wasn't inclined to listen to their pleas.

"…Your Majesty, I sincerely beg you to consider the circumstances. Our relative has served the Crown loyally in the past–"

"That will be enough," the King interrupted, effectively cutting off the squire's speech. "I am displeased that this matter has been brought before me again. My decision stands. You're dismissed – I won't hear about this anymore."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

She felt a stab as the couple bowed and left; their intervention on behalf of their noble relative a miserable failure.

Suddenly, the King turned towards her. "Dear, that was unpleasant. But, past services or not, there can be no mercy for traitors and criminals. I hope you understand my decision, my Lady."

"You are a wise King, my Lord," answered Queen Elizabeth with a polite smile. "As you said before, justice must prevail."

"I'm glad you agree with me," said her husband seriously. "After all, Lord Burke used to be a friend of yours once."

Elizabeth shook her head. "The judge said that he insidiously attacked and murdered your advisor. His punishment should be appropriate for his crime."

The King nodded. "Then we are in agreement."

Raging inside but wearing a bland smile, Queen Elizabeth listened as her husband confirmed Peter Burke's death sentence.

And behind her mask, she plotted furiously until she came up with an idea. Now all that was left was to put her plan in action.


	2. Part I

**PART I**

"I have to say, this is so much pleasure, Caffrey. What a damn shame that we can't do this for real."

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, Hagen." Somehow, Neal managed to keep his voice steady despite the shackles around his hands.

One last long look before Hagen finally set down the arrest papers. "They look just like the real deal… Well, your work is up to your usual standards. Which means that we're good to go."

"I'm thrilled," Neal replied dryly while he worked on the lock to his chains.

Hagen smiled. "See, I detect a distinct lack of enthusiasm. You do realize that if you screw me, you can say goodbye to the good Lord Burke?"

"I'm not stupid. I want this to succeed as much as you do. Besides, your baroness would kill me if I messed up the plan."

"I knew you were smart. Now relax, Caffrey. We're both working towards the same goal. Smile a little!"

Suppressing a shudder, Neal tossed the now opened shackles on the table. "Here. Now show me the floor plans."

"Impatient," said Hagen with mocking disapproval. "But fine." Motioning Neal to move closer, Hagen unrolled the map of the dungeon complex. "Your dear friend _Peter_ is being held in the lowest level of the northern end. He's chained to the wall and his cell is locked, but that shouldn't be a problem for a resourceful man like you."

"Picking locks takes time. You could just give me the key."

"Ah, but where would the fun be in that?" said Hagen smugly. "Besides, I like to keep my hands clean, just in case you try to _backstab_ me or get yourself caught."

Neal barely kept his temper in check. "Of course you do. So where do they keep your merry murderess?"

"Lady Rachel is being held in this cell," Hagen pointed to a spot in the east wing. "The afternoon shift gives us three hours. The hard part will be getting them out. I'll have clothes ready for you, but it won't be long before the other guards realize that we're having a jailbreak. Your horses better be really fast."

"The best money could buy – or not," said Neal with a crooked smile.

"Nice," Hagen chuckled. "I thought you said you didn't steal."

Neal smiled back. "I lied."

"That's why I like you, Caffrey."

After they said goodbye, Neal left Hagen's house and then rode his horse to a nearby inn. He had several hours before he had to meet with Gordon Taylor and his men, so he ordered a fish for lunch. The day was still young and the alewife had a beautiful smile, so Neal made himself comfortable and simply enjoyed the day.

The wine they served him was bitter, not what he would have chosen for what could well be his last day on Earth. Neal drank it anyway, knowing that if he succeeded, he would be drinking the finest beverages in less than two days. If he failed tomorrow, then nothing else would matter anymore.

Suddenly Neal's wrist began shaking, and he had to put down the utensils before he accidentally dropped them. Old fears aside, it would not do to attract attention now.

Even though the mere thought of the dungeons made a cold sweat run down his spine.

But Peter was his friend; more than that, Neal owed him too much. Peter hadn't just prevented his death – he had given Neal his life back; took a chance on him when everyone else would have turned away.

It was Neal's turn now to return the favor.

o - o - o

Their story had begun some seven years ago, when Neal and Kate had still been living in their home country on the other side of the sea. Apprenticed to a carpenter, Neal had talented hands and little to his name other than a likeable smile and an easy way with people. He knew it would take years before he and Kate could be together – and often at night he made plans about speeding up the process, grabbing his tools and leaving if he could only somehow get the money to start his own shop.

When Count Adler noticed him, Neal saw it as a miracle, a divine intervention, and a chance to fulfill his dreams.

Adler introduced him to Lady Alexandra, an illegitimate daughter of a powerful nobleman who got around the court by her charm and sharp intelligence, and to Sir Winters- _call-me-Mozzie_ , an ingenious master of "acquisitions" who was hiding his night job behind a façade of a moderately successful poet. Between the three of them, they had six weeks to transform Neal from a commoner into someone who could reasonably fit into the higher society – _and_ teach him how to be a thief in the process.

Adler had a plan for him, an "audition," or so he called it. He wanted Neal to accompany Alex and Lord Fowler to a foreign country, posing as one of their entourage, then steal some documents that belonged to one of their noblemen. When Neal revealed that he couldn't read the foreign alphabet, Adler explained it didn't matter – he showed Neal what seal to look for, and the less he knew the better.

 _Mozzie had been suspicious when he found out_ – Neal would remember years later how his new mentor had expressed his doubts about the Count and the job. But Neal had been too trusting, too much of an optimist to heed Mozzie's warnings; he saw a bright future for himself either as one of Adler's people or as a man with his own shop, and he wasn't going to be deterred by the paranoia of someone whom he'd only known for weeks. He would succeed, and as soon as he got back, he was going to ask Kate's father for her hand in marriage and the two of them would live happily ever after.

They reached the other country and infiltrated the court with no trouble; all that was left was for Neal to steal the documents. That was when it had all gone wrong.

It was a week after their arrival when he sneaked into the room of the Queen's favorite cousin. He didn't even have the time to locate the letter box when the guards barged into the room. Instead of escaping, Neal froze like a fool and let himself be arrested and bound.

It took them four days of torture to convince him that Count Adler had set him up, and another three days before Neal finally broke and told them all he knew – which wasn't much. From hints and scraps of information, he deduced that Adler's aim was to cause a war between their nations – to what ends, he didn't know – and that Neal was always intended to be the fall guy in this plan.

When he was finally battered enough that they believed he had held nothing back, the interrogation came to an end. At that point, Neal didn't dare to ask why they stuck him into the dungeons instead of killing him outright – maybe they wanted to keep him in case they needed new information. For years, that thought had been both a source of nightmares and a solace.

 _He had survived, and they might need him again._

The dungeons had been hell. The chilling cold, the lack of food, the rats and the confinement of his tiny cell – well, Neal was young and he could withstand those. It was the isolation and loneliness that had him crawling the walls within a week. His nightmares only made matters worse.

Then despair seeped in.

He was locked in this hellhole for the rest of his life. Kate would get married while his years passed away; he would grow old here if he didn't starve to death first. It might take a decade, three or four, but when he finally died, nobody would even remember his name.

He tried to hold on to his anger, but soon even that slipped away and then he had nothing to keep him going.

 _And then he got Mozzie's message._

Someone had left their money for the guard to improve Neal's food; they had also delivered a cloak for him, and a foreign book of poems. Oh, he never saw any of it – food, clothes, the book – but he knew who it was from and he understood the message. He could barely read and write in his own language, so a foreign book would be completely useless to him – and anyone who cared about him would know that. Which meant it was a clue, and there was only one poet-slash-thief whom he considered a sort of a friend.

That knowledge alone gave him back the hope that he had lost. The next day, Neal had begun to plot his escape. After several months, he finally had a plan.

The skills Mozzie had taught him came in handy then. A few locks, a bit of acting and Neal was free, his hopes and dreams flaring back to life with a powerful fire.

His happiness would not last long.

Back then he had too little experience to know how to successfully disappear. He had escaped only to be caught three weeks later. When _Lord Burke_ finally tracked him down, Neal had pointed a knife at his own heart, telling himself that he'd rather die than be captured again. He was going to stab himself, bleed out, _anything_ but to go back to the fortress. His decision made, he had pressed the knife against his body until his forehead was sweating; the blade had pierced his skin and he felt the blood trickling down his chest; he pushed, _pushed_ and twisted; his hands were shaking but he had to finish it somehow–

Peter had knocked the knife out of his hand, but Neal wouldn't have succeeded anyway. He was too much of a coward; he loved life too much to actually kill himself that way. He didn't want to die; there was always a way out, there _had_ to be another option–

 _And then, miraculously, there was._

o - o - o

"Whatever your plan is, why would anyone willingly walk into that place… Well, it's your life. If you're sure–"

"I am, Mr. Taylor. Let's get it over with."

Taylor gave him a searching look before nodding slowly. "All right."

In reality, Neal's confidence was just a thin mask hiding his own terror. Rusty might have recommended Gordon Taylor, but Neal didn't know him. The less his accomplices knew the better.

Taylor had asked for forty golden pieces to act as Neal's escort to the fortress; Neal had laughed at him and countered with a third the amount. Finally, after a short bartering, he bought himself six fake guards and a promise that Taylor's group would remain silent about his task.

For a brief moment, Neal contemplated how, years ago, the gold would have seemed like a small fortune; something that could have fed a small family for a good six months. Then he abandoned that thought and focused on the important matters. Money was the least of his concerns today.

The fake beard was itching. For a moment, it was like he could feel all of his old scars, thankfully hidden beneath his clothes. His coat felt tight over the padding that was supposedly "added weight"; he _looked_ fat, as far as he could tell, but what if someone thought to check just to be safe…

All it would take was one pat down from the wrong person and everything would fall apart.

"Here are the arrest papers," Neal said and handed them to Taylor. Afterwards he climbed aboard his horse and let Taylor help him lock the shackles around his own wrists. From now on, he had to look like their prisoner – it was the quickest way to get himself into the fortress without arousing suspicion. After all, who would be _stupid_ enough to intentionally get themselves locked up in the country's worst prison? You would have to be a desperate fool to even consider that plan.

Moving his hands to rest the chains as comfortably as possible, Neal admitted that he fitted well into both categories.

When Taylor moved away from him, Neal wondered whether this was the moment – if one of Taylor's men would stab him in the back now that his hands were bound. Involuntarily, he felt his shoulder-blades clenching a bit as if in expectation of a deadly blow. After all, why would Taylor's people risk their necks posing as fake guards if they could simply murder Neal and dump him in a ditch? They'd already been paid and collected their reward.

"Let's move, then," Taylor called and his men climbed aboard their horses. Neal then forced himself to relax and preserve his strength.

He had to focus on Peter.


	3. Part II

**PART II**

Peter turned around from his right side, trying to find a more comfortable spot, yet knowing there was none. The stone floor was cold and unyielding, and the one torn blanket was not nearly enough to keep him warm. At least the years he had spent in the army had hardened him enough to withstand similar conditions. Trying to ignore the stench, his thirst and the pain of his wounds, Peter thought back to his predicament and how he had come to be in this cell, waiting for either a miracle or death.

A month ago, he had been a respected lord and a secret servant of her Majesty. Now they called him a murderer and a traitor, and his execution was scheduled three weeks from now; that was, unless the King heard Peter's family's plea and signed his pardon. Even then, the best version of his future involved spending the rest of his life as a prisoner in his country house, forgotten and isolated with only a small handful of servants.

If it was only up to Queen Elizabeth, Peter doubted he would have even been tried, much less convicted. But years ago, politics had demanded that Elizabeth take a step back and let her husband become the official ruler of the country. Behind the peaceful outlook of their kingdom, there was a vicious power-struggle raging between the House Mitchell and House Ruiz. The King had the support of the Church, but people never quite forgot that he was an outlander, no matter how powerful his own country was. Queen Elizabeth, on the other hand, had been born here. That alone wouldn't have given her much real power, but Elizabeth was smart, beautiful and generally well-liked; more than that, she was a brilliant political player, which meant that she had a significant part of the nobility backing her up. The King could not pass many decisions that the Queen would staunchly oppose unless he wanted to risk an open conflict in the royal court. Yet Charles Ruiz was the official King and Elizabeth was just his consort – and the King took every opportunity to weaken his wife's influence, just as the Queen fought to weaken him.

And now, through his own foolishness, Peter had become the latest piece on their elaborate chessboard.

He had uncovered the plot by Lord Pratt against Elizabeth and, instead of alerting the appropriate people, Peter had confronted Pratt. Feeling righteous and overconfident, he had not expected Pratt to pull his sword on him and begin a swordfight. In the end, Peter had killed the man in self-defense, but the damage had already been done.

Pratt's faction had acted immediately, twisting the events in such a way that had led to Peter's arrest.

The worst thing was that the Queen was still in danger. Peter would have been willing to die if it meant protecting his country (and Queen Elizabeth), but knowing that the other conspirators were still there plotting… that made it unbearable.

At least he had talked to Reese Hughes two weeks ago. Peter trusted his long-time friend to uncover the rest of the plot against the Queen – after all, Reese had been the one who had recruited Peter into their secret group, years back, when the old King was still alive and before Elizabeth ascended to the throne. Reese would do his best to ensure that nothing happened to Elizabeth.

Peter had also asked Reese how Neal was doing. His friend had told him not to worry about that, which probably meant that Neal had disappeared shortly after the whole disaster with Pratt's death went down. That was just as well – over the years, Peter had come to genuinely care about the other man, and the last thing he wanted was to see Neal go down with him now that things were looking so bleak.

His affairs were in order, so if it came to the worst, that wasn't an issue, either. All in all, Peter had plenty to be grateful for. His conscience was clear – he could die in peace. He had fulfilled his duty, protected the Queen and then passed on the task to a trusted friend. He had given his best, as always, and now it was up to someone else.

 _His life was ruined, he could do nothing to help Elizabeth anymore, and they were going to_ kill _him for doing the right thing–_

With an enraged scream, Peter moved forward and tried to reach the door. He wanted to bang his fists against the heavy wood, but then his chains pulled him back and he collapsed onto the floor with a burning pain in his shoulders. Breathing hard, he felt the physical pain slowly die down – but the dull ache in his heart remained.

He had spent most of his life guarding his kingdom, and now he was facing the executioner's sword for a crime of which he was innocent. He hadn't married, but he had hoped to leave a good family name behind – to his nephew, if he never had children of his own. And now –

He had to keep faith, Peter reminded himself. His name, his friends, and years of loyal, honorable service to the Crown had to mean something. His pardon would come, or at least a postponement of his execution, and soon afterwards, Reese and his people would uncover Calloway's dirty machinations and clear him of the murder. He just had to be patient and hold on.

In a place that threatened his sanity, Peter clung to his beliefs and convictions. Drawing a shaky breath, he lay down back on the cold ground and tried to get some sleep.

o - o - o

Peter had first met the Crown Princess when he came to the court at age fourteen. Princess Elizabeth was three years old and a cute little handful – at least that was what Peter's mother said. Peter had been far more interested in the castle surrounding him – the soldiers, the flags, the artists and dancers and the huge glass chandelier that hung in the ballroom. The Princess was just a kid, but the swords and the music and the lights…!

After that, Peter had encountered the Princess on a few more occasions, usually just in passing. It was twelve years later, when Peter received an award from King Alan for his brave and loyal service in the army, that he first saw Elizabeth as a young woman rather than a child. At fifteen years old, Elizabeth was already beautiful: her dark hair fell over her shoulders in waves; the way she moved reflected a grace that was unusual even for someone of her birth; the gorgeous blue dress that she wore for the ceremony couldn't match the color of her eyes. Peter was enchanted by the sound of Elizabeth's laugher; he was taken aback by her smart, witty responses when he engaged her in a conversation; he was moved by her generosity and her kindness.

Peter Burke was twenty-six and he fell in love.

When the old King died two years later, Elizabeth became Queen. Following in her father's footsteps, she often turned for advice to Lord Hughes, head of one of the oldest noble families in the kingdom. Reese had brought Peter into their secret circle of the Crown's faithful just a few months before the King's death, and Peter's loyalty to the new Queen was even stronger than that for her father.

They moved in the shadows: noblemen and commoners, thieves, pirates and spies – a thin yet widespread net of those whose only purpose was to protect their country. The Queen only knew a handful of their names; Peter himself knew many contacts, but even more remained hidden from him. It was safer that way.

Several months after the beginning of Elizabeth's reign, a group led by Count Adler had attempted to cause a conflict and cast doubt at Elizabeth's right to the throne. Their plot had been foiled and two of the group were killed in a fight, but most of them escaped – all but one.

Peter hadn't yet known that the intercepted thief would one day become an ally and a friend.

o - o - o

He hadn't been there when they captured or interrogated Nicolau d'Haldren, and he had been dissatisfied in how little information they had gotten from the man. Despite Reese's belief that there was nothing else to be learned from their captive, Peter wasn't convinced that D'Haldren hadn't held back on them, especially after he had heard about his resistance towards their torture. When the prisoner escaped their most secure fortress, Peter gladly accepted the task of hunting him down and bringing him back.

 _Except at the end of the chase, Nicolau d'Haldren turned out to be nothing like Peter had imagined._

Struck by pity and compassion, Peter had stopped the terrified young man from committing suicide. Yet even then, he was halfway convinced that d'Haldren was just playing him, and that he was an enemy spy with dangerous tricks up his sleeve.

Just as Peter expected, Nicolau had attempted to escape the second night after being recaptured. A brilliant improvisation that was thwarted by amateurish mistakes; certainly a good effort, yet nothing that suggested the extensive training that Peter had expected.

He noted that Nicolau had taken no weapon with him, even though he could have tried to steal one. When Peter caught him less than fifty yards from their campsite, the other man surrendered without a fight but still raised his hands in a desperate plea.

" _I can't go back to that place. Lord Burke… Peter…"_

" _Come on, d'Haldren. You don't want me to force you–"_

" _You should have let me die. I swear to God – I'm no conspirator; I don't_ have _any secret information. Please, listen to me–"_

" _Last chance before I help you with my sword–"_

" _I'll tell you everything I know if you don't take me back there. Promise to kill me once we reach the fortress."_

That stopped Peter in his tracks. _"What do you know?"_

" _Give me your promise first."_

" _All right, I promise…"_

Peter had then listened to Nicolau's – _Neal's_ – story. He had no reason to believe him, yet something about the man's words rang true with him; his plea had tugged at his heart. Slowly, Peter had come up with a plan…

o - o - o

Back in his cell, Peter frowned a bit at the memories. Taking an insane risk that had bordered on treason, he had given Neal a bottle of poison, partially to see if Neal was honest in his request. He watched Neal in his terrified indecision, saw him trembling like a leaf as he opened the bottle but couldn't bring it to his lips, and then recognized his ultimate acceptance when he took a deep breath and swallowed the poison in one big gulp before closing his eyes.

" _Thank you."_

If he was a spy, he should have recognized the substance. So either "Nicolau" was an even better actor than Peter had thought, or he might have been telling the truth – and he truly believed he was about to die.

What Peter really did was help him fake his death.

The next night after his men buried Neal, Peter had returned to dig out his body, then took him to a whorehouse that belonged to one of his contacts. He had entrusted Lauren to look after Neal and to take care of him while Peter reported his death and disbanded the group of soldiers that had accompanied him on his quest.

When he came back three days later, Neal was already strong enough to sit up on his bed. Yet even then, despite all his actions, Peter still hadn't truly believed Neal's story, not until he saw him carve a small dragon statue out of a piece of firewood with just a few simple tools that Lauren had left in his room. After that, Peter made Neal an offer – to get a new name, a new life and to serve the Queen as one of her people. And Neal had accepted.

 _Hughes had been furious for months_. As Peter recalled, the Queen's advisor had wanted to have Neal killed or thrown back into the dungeons – with Peter possibly right next to him. _Funny how that had turned out,_ thought Peter with a grimace.

Given the talent that "Nicolau" had shown at infiltrating their court, Peter had decided to create him an alias of a country gentleman from the neighboring land. After that, he taught Neal everything he needed to know – from etiquette to geography and the subtle art of moving in the shadows. He also taught him to read and write in his kingdom's language, which was apparently vastly different from the alphabet that Neal had learned growing up. It was almost scary how quickly Neal took to writing and drawing – Peter soon realized that he had inadvertently stumbled upon a great forger, and a master thief.

 _And all of that under Peter's tutelage._

It was frustrating how easily Neal slipped into the role that Peter had crafted for him – and then went beyond that. Even though he had watched him like a hawk, somehow, Neal managed to establish his own net of contacts right below Peter's nose. Of course, Neal's skills were also what ultimately convinced Lord Hughes to accept him into their circle. It was always convenient to have someone who could charm the right people or scale the walls and steal important documents – and someone who was expendable and easy to sacrifice.

For six years they had served the Queen, their secrecy especially important once Elizabeth married Prince Ruiz to prevent a civil war. And then everything around them crumbled after Peter discovered the plot led by Lord Pratt and the House of Calloway. It still remained to be seen whether the King had been in any way involved in their schemes or whether the conspirators had acted on their own.

 _Of course, locked in the dungeons and sentenced to death, Peter was unlikely to ever find the answers to these questions._

Once again, Peter sincerely hoped that Neal was safe. However their relationship had started, he had long ago stopped viewing the other man as just a tool – if he ever really had. Neal was charming, brave and clever; they had come to trust each other and rely on each other more than would Peter have thought possible.

But there was nothing he could do now.

Shifting on the ground once again, Peter went back to contemplating the possibility of a pardon before exhaustion finally overcame him and he fell asleep.

* * *

 _A/N: I forgot to say thank you to sherylyn, who beta-read this whole story. Thank you for your wonderful help!  
_


	4. Part III

**PART III**

"So where do we stick him?"

"Listen, this is a mistake. I _swear_ I shouldn't be here–"

"Right, we haven't heard that before. Shut up or we'll toss you in the hole." Taking a few steps away, the guard focused back on the paperwork in front of him. "See this? It's weird, is what it is. What's a smalltime crook like him doing in here? There has to be something wrong–"

"I bet it's because of the fire," the other guard interceded. "With the Esla jail being rebuilt, they have to stick these bastards somewhere. How about that cell after that old man who died last week? Let's put him there for now and let the warden sort this out when he comes back tomorrow."

"Sounds good to me, Hagen," said the first guard with a chuckle. "Well, Rydell, it looks like we have a cell for you after all. Cheer up, it's a nice one. You even get a window and a bed."

Gary Rydell looked at them, almost in tears. "You don't understand, there _has_ to be something wrong–"

"Isn't there always?" said Curtis Hagen shortly. "How about I write up this _mess_ , and you and Anthony and take this one away?" He nodded at another guard who had yet to join their discussion.

"Sure."

The two guards pulled up their prisoner and pushed him towards the door. "All right, let's go."

Gary Rydell – or, by his usual name, Neal Caffrey – gave them a last half-hearted plea before following them out of the room, but nobody was moved by the display. As the door closed, Hagen watched them with an unreadable expression. When the other guards weren't looking, Neal gave him a subtle nod.

The first part of their plan was a success.

o - o - o

Neal's backup plan involved waiting for the guards to split, then faking a collapse and forcing the remaining guard to bend over him, close enough so he could push the chloroform-induced handkerchief into his face. However, that particular course of action was highly dangerous – separating the guards would be a problem, and there was always a risk that the narcotic wouldn't work fast enough and the guard would be able to raise alarm.

Fortunately, it hadn't come to that.

So now he was locked in a cell on the first floor, his guards were gone, and he had roughly three hours to get out, find Peter, and escape before anyone noticed them missing. Piece of cake.

 _For a moment, it felt like the walls were closing in on him. Shutting his eyes, Neal took a few deep breaths before he regained his composure. He_ would _rescue Peter, and they_ would _get out of here before his panic overcame him._

He opened his eyes, feeling almost calm once again. _Good._

He had plenty of work to do.

But first, he had to get rid of his shackles…

o - o - o

The first time Neal had escaped the dungeons, he not only had to unlock the door, but also to remove the four latches that were preventing it from opening. Since the latches were outside and the door almost never opened (except from the tiny flap at the bottom, which they used to pass him food), it had taken him three days to merely determine the latches' exact location; then two months of careful digging through the thick, iron-bound wood until he was able to pass his makeshift hook through and open each of the latches. It had been a toilsome, trying work with the constant danger of being discovered, and Neal didn't think he could have done it if not for his skills as a carpenter.

Which was one of the reasons why Hagen's help had been so crucial.

As Neal vaguely remembered from his brief stroll through the dungeons, there were a few cells that were a bit more accommodating. Those rooms had a bed, a chair and even a small table, but more importantly, there was a single lock and even a small grated window in the door that offered an (albeit limited) view on the dungeon's corridors. Hagen not only provided the much needed information (there were six such cells, all on the first floor), but he also made certain that Neal ended up in one of these instead of somewhere with heavier security.

Of course, the downside was that anyone who took a look inside could notice him missing, which meant he had to move fast.

As soon as he got rid of his chains and the ridiculous beard that was supposedly part of his "disguise," Neal arranged the covers on the bed on the chance that it would fool someone who only gave the room a quick glance. A few minutes later, he was standing in the corridor with free hands, his set of lockpicks (previously sewn into the leg of his trousers), and with steely determination as he recalled the dungeons' outlay. He wanted nothing more than to head straight to where Peter was held; however, the plan demanded that he took a detour first.

Neal swallowed. _Nothing like sneaking through a prison when being caught would mean disaster for him and death for his close friend. No pressure, right?_

Seven years ago, his own escape had ultimately failed. But he was a different man now. He had new set of skills taught to him by some of the best, including Peter; he had far more experience now than he had had then. Most importantly, he had friends, people backing him up, allies waiting for him once he managed to get Peter out of this hellhole.

Straightening his back, Neal cast his fears aside and focused on the task ahead.

o - o - o

The last time Neal had escaped the dungeons, one of his biggest concerns had been his appearance. He had combed his hair, then shortened it and also cut his beard with the tools that he made from the scraps around him; he had repaired his clothes and then waited until it rained one night so he could collect water into his soup bowl and wash his clothes and himself. That had been one of the more memorable events from that time, when, wet and naked, he had shivered in the freezing-cold cell under his one thin blanket and waited for over a day until his clothes dried. But it had all paid off when he walked out of the dungeons through the front gate; his escape was so mysterious that, to this day, the guards weren't entirely sure what had happened. Despite his capture a few weeks later, the memory of how he had fooled his captors still made Neal smile.

Unfortunately, the security had gotten tighter since (and his escape undoubtedly had something to do with that), so that option was no longer available to him. Moreover, Peter's face was simply too well-known in the kingdom, so that particular trick wouldn't have worked anyway.

But there were other ways.

Before entering the dungeons again, Neal had memorized the map that Hagen had shown him. While he had done his best to confirm that the crooked guard hadn't lied to him, he still felt his heart hammering as he searched for the storage room, all the while avoiding the guards as he sneaked through the dungeons' corridors. If Hagen had lied to him…

After a short but tense walk, Neal finally reached the door that matched Hagen's description. He deftly picked the lock and swallowed his fear before opening the door. He smiled in relief as he realized that, once again, Hagen had been true to his word. Stepping inside, he closed the door and swiftly but quietly started inspecting the storage room.

His first concern was stealing one of the spare lanterns, filling it with oil, and then lighting it using a splinter of wood and the burning torch outside the door. Once he was done, Neal could finally breathe a little easier. The guards didn't wear any specific clothes, so in the gloom and dark of the fortress, their lamps were their most distinguishing feature, especially from afar. While most of them knew each other, having the lantern should be enough to fool anyone who didn't specifically see his face.

Hidden under some old rags, there was a bag and rope ladder just as Neal had requested; there were also two sets of clothes for Peter and Lady Turner. Finally, Neal saw the knives on one of the shelves. He took two of them before hesitating over the third one, but in the end he ignored his queasy feeling as he opened the bag and put the knives in.

 _It would not come to that. Besides, he had to stick to the plan._

Quickly packing everything, Neal took a deep breath before picking up his lamp.

 _Hold on, Peter. I'm coming._


	5. Part IV

**PART IV**

After several hours of uneven sleep, Peter was woken by an unfamiliar grating sound of something outside his cell. Curious, he pulled himself up, wincing at the pins and needles in his arm. _He really needed to find a more comfortable way of lying on the floor…_

Suddenly, Peter became fully alert when he realized the source of the noise. _Someone was opening the latches on his door._

Since he had been imprisoned, this was only the third time that someone was entering his cell, and the other times had always been in early morning before the first meal. Did his pardon come through? Peter felt a surge of hope, only to have it immediately replaced by dread. _Or did they for some reason push his execution forward?_

 _He was supposed to still have some time…_

Pulling back a little, he stood up, his stomach clenching at the uncertainty of the situation. _Freedom or death? Or was it some part of the dungeon's routine? Could someone from his family had been allowed a visit, or maybe it was his lawyer coming to talk to him?_

And then the door opened and in walked the absolutely last person that Peter would have expected to find there.

He almost didn't hear Neal's gasp. "Peter…"

" _Neal?!"_

He was dressed wrong, with none of the beautiful fabrics that he usually loved, but it was undoubtedly Neal.

Mesmerized, Peter watched as Neal shut the door to his cell, put his lantern on the floor and then closed the distance between them and took his hands in his.

"You look terrible," said Neal when he found his voice. "I'd give you a hug, but…"

"Dirt, smell and old blood," Peter grimaced understandingly. "Trust me, at this moment I'm not too high on my appearance myself."

Neal shook his head. "It doesn't matter. How are you?"

"I have been better," Peter said distractedly. "Neal, what are you doing here? And – wait, have you put on weight?" It shouldn't be possible, but Neal actually looked heavy – not that it mattered. Was this a visit, like he had thought before? But then, where were the guards?

"I'm here to get you out," said Neal.

"Are you saying that the pardon went through? Or – have you cleared my name?" Peter didn't even bother to conceal his hope – _he was going to be free; he would be able to return to his home, to his people and to serving his country–_

"Neither of that, I'm afraid."

"Then how…" Peter paused.

"Something that is not quite so official." Revealing a hidden pocket in his sleeve, Neal pulled out a set of lockpicks. "I need to see your shackles."

Peter pulled away. "What's going on?"

Neal gave him a serious look. "The King will never sign your pardon or give you a new, fair trial."

Peter frowned. "You can't know that–"

"Your loyalty to the Queen is too well-known," Neal interrupted him. "Lord Hughes believes that they will use this chance to weaken her position. I think he spoke to Elizabeth–"

"Wait a moment, Reese knows about this?" asked Peter in surprise.

Neal met his eyes. "I won't let them kill you, so I'm breaking you out of here."

"That's not–"

"Peter. Please. You have to trust me about this."

Peter shook his head. "I can't. You're asking me to betray my Queen."

"The _Queen_ won't lift a finger to help you! She will stand there, watch them cut off your head and then go back to her petty political games."

"Enough!" Peter snapped, angered by Caffrey's tone. "The way you're speaking is close to treason–"

"And what I'm doing here isn't?" Neal laughed shortly. "What do you think will happen if anyone finds me here? So I believe that ship has already sailed, Peter."

"Even so, the Queen deserves your respect and loyalty," Peter retorted, but already his anger was wavering as he recognized the truth in Neal's words.

If Elizabeth tried to intervene on his behalf, it would ruin everything she had tried to accomplish. She may be the Queen, but she had her duty to the people of her kingdom. She couldn't jeopardize all that for a single life, not even for that of – dare he say – a friend.

 _The Queen could not help him._

Which meant that Neal was right; they were on their own.

Sensing the change in Peter's mood, Neal cleared his throat. "Hey, I can't see the lock properly. Could you hold the lantern while I try to pick it?"

"Your hands are shaking," Peter noted with wonder.

"The lock is dirty. My hands are fine," Neal retorted sharply as he tried to twist the lockpicks the right way.

Peter watched his fumbling with a frown. "Allow me–"

"Got it," said Neal when the lock made a subtle noise and opened with a click.

With Neal's help, Peter took the shackles off his wrists.

"Okay, that's one part. Now for your legs…"

"I'll do it," said Peter and took the lockpicks from Neal's hand.

"They really went all out," Neal snorted with disdain. "I have some clothes for you when you're finished."

"Thank you," Peter replied honestly.

He glanced at the lockpicks. He had long ago discovered that the chains around his ankles were only connected to each other and not to the rings in the wall. They would still severely limit him during their escape, however Neal planned to do that. _The chains had to go._

Speaking of Neal…

For a moment, Peter stilled. _Neal wasn't supposed to be here; his presence alone would be enough to alert the guards. If someone heard them…_

But the guards didn't come to this level often and their schedules were predicable; Peter had learned them soon after his imprisonment. He wasn't sure how much time they had – an hour maybe – but he knew they had some. Lucky coincidence?

 _Not likely._

Peter looked at Neal. "I thought you said you'd do anything rather than come back here."

"Clearly my priorities have changed," Neal replied tensely.

"So how did you get in?" asked Peter curiously.

"I got myself arrested."

"You _what?_ "

"Relax, Peter. I had it covered–"

"What did you do, Neal?" asked Peter, torn between anger and fear. Suddenly he felt ill; one horrible scenario after the other rushing through his mind. People who ended up in the country's worst prison were either traitors or murderers. What had Neal _done_ for him, because of him?

"I staged my arrest. Hey, are you done with those locks, or do you need me to pick them?"

"You're deflecting," Peter rebuked him, not letting Neal distract him from the matter. "Tell me what happened."

Neal grimaced. "All right. I had some help–"

"Who?"

"Some people on the outside. Look, we've got bigger problems–"

"Who else? Come on, Neal, I know you. You wouldn't have come here without a damn good plan–"

"You need to get these chains off so we can move–"

"Fine, you do it," said Peter, giving Neal his lockpicks back. He could have done it, given enough time and focus, but Neal _was_ better at this sort of thing. Besides, as long as Neal was occupied with the shackles, he couldn't concentrate properly on making up stories and would be more likely to tell Peter the truth.

He sat on the ground to give Neal better access to the lock, and waited until Neal crouched to his level before starting his questions again. "I bet you had floor plans of this place – maybe even guards' schedules. Tell me, who's your inside person?"

Neal stilled. "It's always like that with you, isn't it? You always think I have an angle. Can't you for _once_ imagine that this isn't a scheme, that I'd come here just because I care about you?"

"I know you do," said Peter honestly, even as a sliver of guilt gnawed at him. Because he hadn't always believed that – there had been times when he genuinely worried that Caffrey was just waiting for the right moment to stab him in the back. Later, he used to think that Neal was only using him to ensure his own future, and it had probably started that way, because there had been a time when Peter's word and good favor were the only thing keeping Neal from a very bleak fate. But at some point things had changed, and trust and friendship grew where had once been only suspicion, doubts and threats.

Suddenly, Peter hoped that one day, they would have the time to talk about it and sort it all out.

But now there were other concerns. "I wasn't making an accusation. I was merely wondering who might have helped you set this up; what's the fallout going to be."

"Would you believe me if I said I pulled it off on my own?" asked Neal.

Peter lifted his eyebrows. "Did you?"

"I wish." Neal sighed resignedly. "It's Hagen."

… Wait a second… Hagen? As in _Curtis Hagen?_

" _What?!_ How–"

"We found common ground," said Neal before opening Peter's leg irons and standing up. "All finished." Peter watched as Neal pulled the bag off his shoulders. "I've got the clothes for you here – unless you want to stay in these rags…?"

"Nice try. Tell me about Hagen." He started to get dressed.

"Promise me you'll listen to the whole story before you pass judgment."

"Something tells me I'm not going to like this," said Peter dryly even as his stomach coiled with unease. "Out with it. What's the deal?"

"Hagen has been planning to free Rachel Turner, but he couldn't do it by himself. Same as I couldn't free you. So–"

"You can't be serious."

 _Rachel Turner._

The baroness had long been suspected of a string of murders. Hughes' people had worked hard to see her caught until about a year ago, when Peter and Neal had finally managed to get enough proof to see her convicted. Lady Turner had then narrowly escaped death when she had claimed to be pregnant, thus delaying her execution until the baby could be born. She had finally borne a daughter just a few weeks before Peter's arrest, after which the King had commuted her sentence to imprisonment, following the centuries' old customs that sometimes led to showing clemency in this sort of a case.

Which meant that by now, Rachel Turner was probably back on her feet, locked up in the same prison as Peter for all her murders. _And Neal was talking about breaking her out. Rachel Turner, a dangerous killer with no morals._

 _He would let her go to set Peter free._

"Have you _completely_ lost your mind?!" Peter roared when he found his voice at last.

"Shhh," Neal hissed in panic and covered Peter's mouth with his hand. "You'll attract attention–"

"I'm not doing this," said Peter resolutely. "I'm not walking out of here if it means Turner is a part of this. Thank you for trying, Neal, but I'll rather take my chances with waiting for the King's pardon."

Silence.

Almost immediately, Peter felt a surge of doubt. _Was he really willing to die rather than help Turner escape?_

 _He didn't_ want _to die._

But it wasn't just about his life, it was about his honor, too. One of Turner's suspected victims had been Lady Ellen, whom Peter had known since childhood and who had occasionally been his mentor after the death of his mother. If he now exchanged his freedom for Turner's, it would be spitting on the memory of a kind woman and a dear family friend. And he really didn't know how he'd be able to live with that.

Besides, even on the run, Rachel Turner was too dangerous to be released back into the world.

But was he willing to _die_ for his convictions?

Peter was brought out of his thoughts when Neal shook his head in frustration. "You're not listening to me. I told you to wait until I explained everything."

Peter frowned. "Then by all means, tell me. What is this plan of yours?"

"I told _Hagen_ that we would break out Rachel with us. I never said we were actually going to do it."

"Explain."

o - o - o

"So Hagen gave you the schedules, some stuff and the map. But why would he trust you to free the baroness?"

A while ago, they had cost Hagen his position in a nobleman's household, and from the way he'd beaten up Peter shortly after Peter's arrival in the dungeons, it was clear that he still held a grudge. The fact that he would help them now…

"How can you be sure it's not a trap?"

"We can't. But it's the best chance we've got."

 _Damn._ "Somehow that's not very reassuring," said Peter flatly.

"He needs me to get her out. As far as Hagen knows, my plan is to free you and Turner, and then the three of us will escape over the south wall. Since it would take at least three people to subdue the guards at the walls, he knows we can't leave her behind."

It took Peter a moment before he recalled the general layout of the fortress. The southern wall, while occupied by guards, was also the easiest to scale and about eight hundred yards away from the nearby forest. With a rope ladder, it was possible, provided that you were willing to kill a few people in the process – people who were just doing their job.

 _As far as Hagen knows?_ "And our real plan?" he asked curiously. Because Peter knew that Neal abhorred violence – he had become proficient with a sword, but he still preferred to use his charm and wits – and he didn't think that any scheme concocted by Neal would involve intentional bloodshed. (He hoped.)

Something about Neal's smile immediately raised an alarm in Peter's head. "From what I recall, you're a great swimmer."

 _Passable_ was more like it, but Peter shrugged. "I can manage. What's this about?"

"The west wall of the fortress is facing the sea and is much less occupied by guards," said Neal before making a pause.

 _The west wall…_ " _That's_ your plan? Is that supposed to be a joke?" asked Peter incredulously.

"We can make it–"

"That cliff is a hundred-and-thirty-feet tall. If we fall, we die; if we try to climb down, there's no way someone won't spot us and then they'll cut our rope or ladder or whatever we're using." That was the reasonable assumption, anyway. "The two convicts who tried that route both killed themselves with the fall."

"There have only ever been three successful escapes from this place, including mine," Neal opposed. "You _know_ this isn't an ordinary jail. I only had a few weeks to make a plan, and I was outside of the fortress."

"You walked out through the front door–" Peter started hopefully.

But Neal was already shaking his head. "There's two of us and you're too recognizable. It's not an option. Besides, it's not as bad as it sounds."

"It's _suicide_ ," Peter stressed out. "There has to be another option–"

" _The other option_ is giving Hagen what he wants. To free Lady Rachel and fight our way out, with all the obvious consequences. If that's what you'd prefer–"

"Never mind," said Peter, the mere thought of murdering a guard or three making him vaguely ill. "The west wall it is."

Neal smirked mirthlessly. "I knew you'd say that."

And Peter remembered that, while unorthodox, Neal's solutions were often very effective.

"A fall from that height would still kill us. I assume you have a solution?" _A distraction? A mysterious hidden pathway that Peter didn't know about?_

Neal smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." Reaching into his bag, he finally pulled out two knives, handing one to Peter despite his alarmed expression. Then he took off his coat to reveal – a bundle of fabric? With strings?

"Here is what we're going to do…"


	6. part V

**PART V**

Despite his projected confidence, Neal knew all too well that this was far from the best plan he had ever made. There were plenty of things that could go wrong – they could _die_ , and if only he had had more time …

 _No wonder Peter looked so skeptical when he explained it all to him._

His one relief during his scheming had been his firm belief that Peter wouldn't have approved of a violent solution. Neal didn't know if he could have done it – _killing a stranger to save Peter's life_ – but Peter wouldn't have accepted that sort of sacrifice, and that made it all much easier. _He didn't have to make any terrible choices that would weigh on his conscience for years to come._

He was glad for that, at least right now.

 _Still, he might change his mind later if he and Peter fell to their deaths._

o - o - o

"Keep that," advised Peter when Neal tried to discard his bag with the rope ladder and everything else.

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I told you, we won't be needing it."

"And what if we do? We'll hardly have time to come back for it. Besides, we can always leave it behind once we reach the west wall."

"I can't put it over the flying sheet, Peter. If anything gets tangled up…"

"Right, the _flying sheet_. I didn't think about that." Visibly upset, Peter took a deep breath. "Neal, are you _sure_ that–"

"It will be fine," Neal snapped before Peter could voice the rest of his concern. It _had_ to be fine, because otherwise…

The alternatives were not pretty.

Both he and Peter were already wearing a harness with a bundle of silky fabric on their backs. _Mozzie had been enthusiastic about the concept, and Neal had tested this several times, but if they were_ wrong…

Well, in a short time they were about to find out.

Neal took out the watch he had hidden on himself before he had been brought into the fortress. They still had about twenty minutes, which meant they should probably get moving in case they got stuck somewhere.

He cleared his throat. "Remember, don't forget to cut the strings. Are you ready, then?"

Looking pale, Peter grimaced. "As ready as I'm likely to get."

Neal smiled at him. "Then let's do this."

He picked up the lantern and went to the door, listening for the sound of footsteps. When none came, he opened the door and slipped out, Peter following him like a silent shadow.

 _It would all go to hell if anyone saw them. And this was still the easy part…_

o - o - o

Luckily, they made it all the way up to the highest level. Extinguishing the flame and discarding the now useless lantern in a dark corner where it hopefully wouldn't be noticed, Neal and Peter sneaked up the stairs all the way to the western wall, hiding in a recess where the guard pacing around wouldn't see them.

Unfortunately, that went both ways. They could only rely on the sound of the guard's footsteps to know how close he was to them. Silently, Neal cursed himself for not thinking of bringing a hand mirror.

He checked his watch. They were three minutes early, but that meant little, given how tricky it was to establish the exact time. He gave Peter a nod as a signal. As soon as the footsteps grew quiet with the guard hopefully on the other side of his post (and out of their view), they would make a run for it and jump over the wall. _And then pray hard that Mozzie's invention really worked._

Peter nodded back that he had understood the message.

Standing there in silence, they listened and waited.

Finally, as the footsteps grew quieter, Peter and Neal exchanged a glance.

They broke into run at the same time, climbing over the wall maybe thirty feet from each other. Pulling out his knife, Neal met Peter's eyes. _'Good luck.'_

His knife ready, Neal glanced into the empty space under him. The water level was far away, though thankfully he didn't see any rocks from up here. Swallowing, he clenched the knife tighter and touched the chords of his "flying sheet."

 _You better be right about this, Moz…_

He jumped.

o - o - o

Neal cut the strings the very moment his feet left the wall. And then there was the rush of air around his ears and _nothing below –_

For a moment, it was as if time had stopped.

Then the spell broke, and the air was tearing at his clothes and the water was approaching _fast too fast too close –_

A pull at his straps and some resistance, but then his feet hit the surface with a loud splash–

 _Serenity._

For a moment, Neal watched the blue water surrounding him, interrupted only by the occasional bubble that rose from his mouth. _So peaceful. He noticed a beautiful flower above him and smiled. He almost closed his eyes…_

Not a flower – his flying sheet.

A sense of urgency rushed through him as Neal remembered where he was.

The flying sheet was now descending slowly on him, threatening to drown him if he didn't get rid of it _fast_. Neal reached for his knife, only to realize that he had dropped it in his moment of inattentiveness. Cursing silently, he turned to the straps on his chest and forced his fingers to feverishly work on the clasps – the sheet was still falling, and if he got wrapped in it he would be in real trouble –

The harness fell off. Relieved, Neal made several powerful strokes, swimming away until the sheet was behind him, and then he kicked to reach the surface –

' _Glgh!'_

More bubbles rose as Neal gasped at the sharp pain in his left foot.

He kicked again and made another powerful breaststroke, and then three more until his head finally broke the surface. He gasped for air and coughed, pulled down by the dead weight of his hurting foot, but he kept kicking awkwardly as he tried to stay afloat. His eyes were burning with salt as he frantically looked around – where was Peter, he had to be okay, he simply _had_ to be –

Neal breathed out in relief when the surface broke again and he saw Peter emerging not too far away from him.

"Neal?" Peter called out mutedly.

"Over here!" Neal smiled until he felt the water closing over him. Gasping for air, he made another breaststroke and kicked with his healthy foot until he could breathe again.

He barely blinked before Peter was at his side, a concerned look on his face. "Are you okay?"

"My foot–" But he shouldn't have tried to talk; he should have focused on swimming as once again he was slipping underwater –

Then Peter pulled him up, giving support on Neal's weakened side and keeping him steady while Neal took several deep breaths, trying to calm down his racing heart.

"Thanks," he breathed out, the sharp pain shooting from his ankle all the way to his calf and thigh.

"You said there'd be a ship," said Peter a little breathlessly as struggled to support Neal's weight.

"There will be. You'll see."

Yet despite his confident words, Neal felt a wave of doubt.

Mozzie had promised… but the ship was dependent on wind, and he hadn't counted on his own injury. _What if it took them too long to get there? What if…_

"There," said Peter suddenly, motioning forward with his head. And truly, there was a ship sailing, though it was still too far away from them.

The ship would get as close as it could, and then they would level a lifeboat and row there to pick them up. They only had to hold on until then; keep afloat and not drown –

But the guards of the fortress could realize their escape at any moment, and then it would be a race in time. Grimacing, Neal weighted their alternatives before reluctantly reaching the uncomfortable conclusion. "We should swim their way."

Peter shook his head. "Neal, you're barely staying above water. If you exhaust yourself–"

"They have guns and cannons on the walls. If they hit the lifeboat, we'll all drown. The farther away we get, the better."

Pressing his lips together, Peter hesitated.

"It's okay. I'm feeling better already," said Neal persuasively. His lie would have been more convincing if he wasn't all tense with pain, but there was no way around that.

Silence.

"Don't you _dare_ drown on me," said Peter at last.

Neal smiled. "I wouldn't dare," knowing he had won the battle.

With Peter's support, he started swimming to the open sea.

o - o - o

 _He might have drowned, if it weren't for Peter._

They swam in silence, conserving their strength as they headed towards the ship. However, without the full support of his legs, Neal's arms began tiring too soon, and he was relying more and more on Peter to drag him forward. _Peter, who had spent a month in the dungeons; Peter, who was still weakened from being beaten by the guards with a grudge; Peter who wouldn't let Neal drown, not now nor in the past._

 _Peter had been sentenced to death, and here he was, still resilient and acting like a hero._

The part of Neal that wasn't focusing desperately on staying above water loved him a little for that.

Five or maybe ten minutes after their jump, they heard a cannon shot from the fortress, announcing the escape of a prisoner. They both tensed a little, but there was nothing to do, and so they just kept swimming – the lifeboat had already been leveled and it would be there for them soon enough…

"I can't… Neal…"

"It's okay," he breathed and _willed_ his exhausted limbs to move. His eyes were tearing from pain and salt, but he kicked his feet – _both_ his feet – and they moved in the right direction. Just a bit longer; Peter's fingers dug deep into his arm as he kept pulling them forward….

And then the lifeboat was suddenly there and there were two pairs of arms pulling him out of the water. Neal had barely collapsed on the wooden boards before he tried to check on Peter. Another muffled thud reassured him that his friend hadn't been left behind, yet he didn't feel calm until they pulled him on a bench and he met Peter's eyes. Like him, Peter was wet, trembling with cold and exhaustion, but the tired smile he gave Neal spoke more than any words, filling Neal with relief and quiet joy.

They had made it.

It was only then that he looked properly at the faces of their rescuers. "Thank you," he said gratefully, meeting the eyes of the boat's captain even though he didn't recognize him.

"You're welcome," said the man with a nod.

They didn't even finish talking before the oars lift again and the lifeboat made its way back to the ship.

o - o - o

Peter had easily climbed the rope ladder; he had also told the sailors that Neal had hurt his ankle and would require assistance. A few embarrassing moments later, they were standing on the ship's board – well, Peter was standing, while one of the sailors had provided an empty chest for Neal to sit on so that he could rest his ankle. Then, once the ship was headed back to the ocean, Neal and Peter finally got to meet the captain.

Mindful of Mozzie's warnings, Neal kept his voice strictly polite as he extended his hand with a smile. "Captain. My name is Neal Caffrey and this is Lord Peter Burke. We're in your debt for coming to our aid."

"It's been no trouble… Well, it's been less trouble than some of Mozzie's _other_ ideas, at least. The name's Sara Ellis. Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen," Captain Ellis replied as she shook their hands with a strong grip.

Neal noticed Peter's look of confusion and gave a small shake of his head, promising to explain later.

They spoke shortly; then, without further ado, Sara had a man show them to their cabin, get them both clean clothes and then told him to have a medic check out Neal's ankle.

"Oh, before I forget: you have letters here."

"Letters?"

Wordlessly, Sara pulled two envelopes from her chemise. Neal moved to accept them both, but he was surprised when Sara only gave him one. "The other is for Lord Burke."

Neal froze. He more felt than saw Peter tensing next to him as well.

 _It was a trap. There shouldn't have been a letter for Peter. Did the King's men know of their plan?_

But that didn't make sense. If the King had known, their escape would have been stopped before it even happened, not afterwards. But then, who else?

They both eyed the letter warily. "There must be a mistake," said Peter at last.

"Are you Lord Burke? Then it's yours," said Sara impatiently. "Listen, are you going to take it? I have a ship to run."

"Of course. Pardon me."

Peter was still turning the envelope around in his hands when Sara left them.

Neal turned his attention back to his own letter. "Mine's from Mozzie," he said once he tore the envelope open. "What about you?"

"I don't know," said Peter reluctantly.

"Peter…" _Was there going to be trouble?_

"I'll read it after dinner," said Peter decisively and put the letter away. Neal almost told him to open it, but then he held back. They were at sea and, by now, too far from the shore. If there was something going on, it was unlikely an hour or two of waiting would change much. The letter could wait.

With that out of the way for the moment, they got changed into dry clothes. They had barely finished when a sailor appeared with a kettle of hot wine and two cups, telling them that the captain would later have dinner with them. They thanked him and then send him away.

Once the immediate concerns were settled, Neal finally had the time to examine his surroundings.

The cabin was rather nice; better than they would have expected. They rested themselves on the small armchairs, enveloped in blankets, each with a cup for the hot wine. According to Captain Ellis, the wind was good and strong, carrying them far away from the land that had sentenced Peter to death. The room was warm, the wine was sweet, the armchairs as good as it got on a smugglers' ship. Feeling at peace, Neal allowed himself to close his eyes and rest.

"Neal?"

He opened his eyes to look at Peter. "Yes?"

Peter hesitated. "Thank you for coming for me," he said at last.

"I couldn't leave you there. You're my friend." Neal swallowed a gulp of the wine before smiling. "Besides, you saved me first, remember?"

But despite Neal's light tone, Peter still looked troubled. And Neal realized how deep the other man was hurting for having lost his good name and his former life, for having been falsely accused and convicted by the very same country that he had always supported. And despite not having much love for the Queen or the Crown (his loyalty has always been to Peter first and foremost), Neal wished he could give Peter his name and titles and faith back; that he could take away the grief and regret he could see in his friend's face.

But even his best schemes and tricks couldn't accomplish that; he couldn't overturn the conviction that labeled Peter a murderer. Neal could only save Peter's life and hope he would find peace at some point in the future.

And so he kept the talk light, poured Peter some wine and did his best to make him smile as the ship carried them far away, into the ocean, and away from the only life that Peter had ever known.


	7. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

They had clam soup, rabbit with redcurrant sauce and finally a tuna, with honey-dipped fruit for desert. It was far from the opulent feasts in the Royal Palace, but better than Peter had had during most of his campaigns with the army and _way_ better than the slop they fed him in the dungeons. But even as his stomach clutched with hunger, he knew better than to eat too much, too fast. His head was swimming, the wine already making him dizzy, and Peter knew he might be sick unless he was careful. So he took small bites, chewed carefully, and indulged himself with fantasies of the breakfast tomorrow, the lunch after that, and the dinner next evening.

And just like that, he spent the evening laughing at Neal's jokes, drinking wine and eating, making small talk once Captain Ellis came to join them for dinner, and trying to be a good companion despite the thoughts that plagued his mind.

 _Traitor or not, he was still supposed to be a gentleman._

"Excuse me," he said suddenly. He stood up, putting away his napkin and hurriedly walked out of the cabin to get some fresh air before nausea caught up with him.

His unsteady feet brought him to the side of the ship. _He really shouldn't have drunk all that wine…_ Swallowing, Peter put his forearms on the railing. The last time he had been at sea had been about a year before he had met Neal. Now, the salty smell of the ocean felt foreign and yet familiar. Watching the sea waves crash against the ship's keel, Peter let their sound sooth him, smooth over the sharp edges of his pain and regret.

Minutes, hours passed. When the sun had set, Peter stared at the black ocean, willing the darkness to swallow him.

He stiffened a little when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

"If you wanted to do some stargazing, you picked the wrong night. There are too many clouds tonight."

 _Captain Ellis._

Turning around, Peter came face-to-face with the woman. "I see I left in the middle of our dinner. Pardon my manners, Captain–"

"You can save the pleasantries, Lord Burke–"

"Call me Peter, please."

The Captain smiled. "Of course, Peter. And it's Sara."

This time, Peter wasn't so surprised that she didn't offer him her hand to kiss, instead settling for a friendly smile and leaning against the railing next to him.

He tried not to stare, even though the sight of the captain was still quite surprising. Sara wasn't wearing skirts or a dress, which would have been impractical at sea, instead opting for a white shirt, a dark green vest with simple but beautiful embroidery, tight dark trousers and a pair of knee-high leather boots. Whether noble or commoners, very few women dressed like this, and for a woman to become a captain of her own ship was almost unheard of – at least in Peter's country. But Peter knew better than to question the state of things when it had been Sara's ship and her crew who had picked them up and saved him from death, whether it had been by execution or drowning.

He turned back to look at the ocean. The moon was just a tiny crescent, barely visible behind the clouds. Speaking of the clouds…

"There's a storm coming," said Sara, following his gaze.

A bad storm at sea could be quite an event. "Is there anything you need from me or Neal?" asked Peter.

Sara smirked a little. "Just stay out of our way once it starts."

Well, he could easily do that. "All right."

"How are you holding up?" asked Sara after a moment of silence.

 _And wasn't that a loaded question._

But he wasn't willing to discuss it with a stranger. "It's of no concern. I'll be all right," said Peter dismissively. He cleared his throat. "As grateful as I am for your rescue, may I ask where you plan to put us ashore?"

Sara raised her eyebrows. "Are you already so eager to get off my ship?"

"I'm merely curious," said Peter with a shrug. "Neal never got that far in his explanation. Obviously he told me that we would be leaving the country, but–"

"Ah." The captain paused. "We'll be stopping at several ports; you can leave wherever it suits you. Maybe you should read your letter before we talk about your departure?"

 _Right. The letter._

Peter almost asked again how did anyone even know to contact him, but something about Sara's expression stopped him. He hesitated.

The sound of thunder not too far away startled him and broke him from his thoughts.

Sara frowned. "The storm's nearly here. We have to reef the main sail before it hits us."

"Of course. I'll take this inside, then."

As he closed the door to his cabin, Peter could hear Sara barking orders at her crew. He stilled when he noticed Neal dozing in one of the armchairs, no doubt exhausted by the long swim and his injured foot.

It hit him suddenly that Neal was essentially free now. For a moment, Peter wondered if Neal was going to stay with him, or if he was going to leave now that Peter's life wasn't in danger anymore. He recalled that Neal had once had a lover where he came from, and she had probably gotten married since, but maybe she had waited for him. And Peter had always thought that Neal was made for the life of a spy, but maybe after what had transpired so recently, he would miss his country and the previous, simpler life. Since they had escaped and he wasn't bound to Peter anymore, would Neal choose to leave?

If that was what he really wanted, then Peter wouldn't try to stop him.

Quietly, Peter picked one of the lamps in the cabin and settled himself in the opposite armchair. The storm reached the ship just as he broke the nondescript seal on the envelope.

Peter reached into the envelope, pulling out a stack of parchment. Then he froze.

It was a second envelope, but this one had a seal that he recognized.

The Royal Seal. One that belonged to Queen Elizabeth.

 _What was that seal doing there?_

Peter ripped the envelope open and pulled out the letter. The handwriting was Elizabeth's – she often dictated her letters to a scribe, but he had seen several of her personal letters and it was undoubtedly her penmanship. And that signature… he would recognize it anywhere.

With shaking hands, Peter stared at two separate sheets in front of him.

The first one was a variation of the same document that he had seen several times in his life, declaring him a diplomatic envoy with full rights to negotiate on the behalf of his country. But the second…

 _For his loyal service in securing a treaty of alliance and trade with the Southern Empire on the behalf of Our kingdom, We, Queen Elizabeth IV of the House Mitchell, hereby forgive any crimes committed by Lord Peter Burke, grant him a full pardon from any previous punishment, and restore to him all property and titles._

 _Signed by the Rightful Queen Elizabeth IV Mitchell,_

 _Daughter of King Alan I Mitchell,_

 _19_ _th_ _October 1697_

The letter fell on the floor.

Peter swallowed as it all clicked in his mind. Hastily, he bent down to pick up the parchment. Once again, he read both documents. He then moved to crumble the envelope so he could burn it in the lamp and with it the incriminating seal, but stopped at the last moment. He needed to show it to Neal, who had long ago surpassed his abilities in spotting fakes. If the letter was real…

 _It meant that Elizabeth, clever, gorgeous, ambitious Elizabeth was planning a coup. She was going to take her throne back from King Ruiz, either by intrigue or by force. The task she set out for Peter – to get the support of Empress June Ellington of the Southern Empire – was likely just one of her many steps. And if the King's men found out…_

 _Heads would roll. Reese, Lord Blake, Lord Siegel… the King wouldn't care whether they knew or not. The lucky ones would simply be beheaded, whereas the rest of them would be tortured for more names – real, made up, it would matter not. Their wives, their children and friends, all would pay for their supposed part in the conspiracy, because this wasn't a difference of opinions or careful opposition – this was the highest treason against the true and rightful King. Elizabeth herself would likely spend the rest of her days in the fortress that Peter had just escaped, and that was if she was lucky and Ruiz still didn't dare to kill her._

 _The documents, the signatures and the seal on the envelope had the potential to ruin hundreds of lives. And the Queen had trusted him with that._

That was, if they were real. It could be a trap, even though Peter's instincts were telling him that this was truly the Queen's work. _But if he were wrong…_

Peter stared at the terrible, terrifying letter and hesitated. _Did he dare show it to Neal? Did he trust Neal with something this deadly?_

On a personal level, absolutely. But Peter had responsibility towards his country (and he was on Elizabeth's side; he couldn't _not_ be, not when it was Elizabeth, who, unlike Ruiz, was born in their Kingdom, who was merciful and clever, who should have never had to give her Crown away to protect her people) – Peter was going to support Elizabeth, no matter what it cost him. But Neal hadn't been born one of them, he had in fact been tortured and imprisoned during Elizabeth's short reign, and if he had ever wanted revenge, he would never get a better opportunity than this. And even if Neal merely decided to leave, would he keep the secret? _As the Queen's man, did Peter dare to trust him?_

And then Peter chuckled, because the answer was so obvious, it wasn't even a choice.

Clearing his throat, he gently shook Neal's arm.

"Neal? Wake up. I need you to look at something."

o - o - o

Three days after Peter had showed him the Queen's letter, Neal was sitting on a random box at the starboard, enjoying the gentle breeze of wind and still a bit in awe from the vast space of blue around. The sun was shining, no signs of a storm ahead, not that he could really tell with his (lack of) knowledge of seafaring. But as of the moment, it was a lovely day.

Neal grinned.

His ankle had turned out to be merely badly sprained, though walking was still an effort. Therefore, he had spent part of the morning watching Captain Ellis, until she noticed and shot him a displeased look. Mozzie had warned him that Sara was proud of her accomplishments, and it was clear that she wanted to be seen as a captain and navigator first and foremost. Neal liked that about her; her determination and abilities, her smarts and wit that only added to her beauty. He was looking forward to getting to know her, if only as a friend. Despite Mozzie's warnings, Neal didn't think Sara would _really_ throw him overboard if she thought he was acting inappropriately, but he was smart enough not to test it – he had had enough experience with drowning to last him for a while.

As he observed the sailors on the ship, Neal once again marveled at the look of some of the crew members. As much as he tried not to stare, he couldn't help but be fascinated by their dark skin, their dark brown eyes and curly hair. Once again, Mozzie had warned him – and Neal had heard stories and even seen two such people before once during an audience in the Royal Palace – but he had never spoken to any of them, and so it had been a unique experience when he finally talked to Sara's first mate, Clinton Jones.

 _And… damn._

Neal smiled sheepishly and waved a little as one of the sailors caught his look. _And he really needed to nip this in the bud_ right now, _because Peter asked him to accompany him to June Ellington and the last thing they needed was to insult the Empress and her husband by staring at them like they were some great spectacle, thus causing a diplomatic incident._

It was a mission that couldn't fail, because Peter's future and the future of his country were probably depending on it. While Neal still didn't have much love for Queen Elizabeth, he also had no particular loyalty towards King Ruiz, and at least it seemed that the Queen was on Peter's side. That was enough for him.

Neal frowned.

Two days ago, Peter had asked him whether he intended to leave now that they had successfully escaped their Kingdom. Neal had barely hesitated before giving his answer. Maybe in the first year or two after Peter recaptured him, it would have been different – even knowing that he had already lost Kate, he still could have gone back to his country, back to the life of a carpenter. But now there was his friendship with Peter, and the simple life of a commoner also no longer held any appeal for him. For better or worse, Neal was in this for the foreseeable future – and he was only glad that he had good friends around him, people like Peter or Mozzie who had his back. And he had theirs.

Yesterday he had woken up Peter from his nightmares, only to have him return the favor a few hours later. They had lit a lamp then and played some cards, both of them unable to sleep anymore. And in those early hours before sunrise, they had talked about the dungeons, about their past and future, about mercy, friendship and trust that had grown where there should have been none.

The wounds Peter still bore from the dungeons made Neal's blood boil. But they would heal, and they were free now, their future was in their hands.

And they were going to make the best of it.

o - o - o

Queen Elizabeth, Consort of King Ruiz, was sitting comfortably in an armchair while a servant was brushing her hair. She was just sipping lemonade from a crystal glass when she heard the commotion from outside: sounds of yelling, arguing voices and the clatter of arms. She took another sip of her lemonade and remained unmoving.

Suddenly, the door to her chambers burst open and her husband walked in. All the servants bowed immediately.

"My King," said Elizabeth politely.

"Peter Burke has escaped," said Ruiz without preamble.

"Burke? But how?"

Instead of answering, Ruiz stared into her eyes, as if he was searching for something. Elizabeth held his gaze.

Finally, her husband looked away. "My men are looking for him. They will catch him before he gets far."

"That's good," said Elizabeth firmly.

Ruiz searched her face again before leaving without a word.

Elizabeth waited until the servants finished her hair before sending them away. Once she was sure she wasn't being watched, she allowed herself a victorious smile.

When she had first heard, all those years ago, that Lord Burke had saved Nicolau d'Haldren's life, she had come within an inch of having d'Haldren executed and Lord Burke cast out of the court. She had been truly angry at Peter's defiance of her authority and at the risk that he had taken by releasing a possible spy instead of bringing him back to the dungeons. But in the end she had allowed it, mostly because of her fondness for Peter, and she had never regretted that choice. In the years that followed, Peter and Neal had served her loyally, the secrecy twice that important once her marriage to Prince Ruiz came to be.

And now Neal Caffrey had done her the biggest service yet when he broke Peter out of the dungeons and saved him from the death sentence that was a terrible mockery of everything that was just and right.

Once again, Elizabeth felt a wave of rage.

 _She had always cared for Peter Burke; she appreciated him as a friend, because politics dictated that was all he could be and Elizabeth was a Queen first. She had allowed Ruiz to take the Crown from her to protect her Kingdom, and for years she had stood in his shadow, letting him take that power rather than risk a civil war… until he crossed the line._

Ruiz had let Peter be sentenced to death; he had refused to grant him clemency, decided to take everything from him, including his life.

And Elizabeth was done playing nice.

Luckily, her old friend had informed Elizabeth the moment she had been hired to aid Peter Burke's escape. Sara Ellis (formerly Sara Wickham) had been Elizabeth's maid until age thirteen, when she had run away to escape an arranged marriage, a fate that had brought such unhappiness to her sister Emily. Over a decade later, Sara was a captain of her own ship and one of Elizabeth's most loyal agents. Elizabeth knew she could count on her to get Peter out of the Kingdom and to pass her letter to him.

With Peter well and out of harm's way, Elizabeth could focus on the next step of her plan.

The alliance with June Ellington would help strongly, but it wasn't an absolute necessity. Getting her husband to abdicate… that would take some delicate work. At this point, Elizabeth was not planning her husband's death – not yet – but she _would_ go that far if Ruiz left her no other option.

 _Because she was the Queen, and Ruiz had_ dared _to mess with Peter._

She would have help, of course. Lord Hughes, Lord Siegel, Lord Blake and Lady Covington were just a few names that came to mind.

She was getting her Kingdom back. And maybe if she was lucky, Peter would one day come back as well.

Straightening her dress, Queen Elizabeth put on a smile and went to join her husband in the throne room.

 **THE END**

* * *

 _Author's Note: If you have made it this far, I'd love to read your thoughts. Otherwise, thank you everyone who has left a review :)_


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